


A Hazy Shade of Winter

by AllonsyHelen



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, M/M, POV Multiple, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-11-06 13:18:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11036970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllonsyHelen/pseuds/AllonsyHelen
Summary: The ice melts, and Steve awakens in the Valkyrie alone. He makes his way to a small town and is resigned to living out his life there. Then he sees Bucky Barnes walk by on the street.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> This fic absolutely would not exist without Alycia (cvptainpoe on ao3, spacebodhi on tumblr), my co-conspirator.

"Hang on to your hopes, my friend  
That's an easy thing to say  
But if your hopes should pass away  
Simply pretend that you can build them again"  
- _A Hazy Shade of Winter,_ Simon  & Garfunkel

March 17, 2010

The sun in Lake View, Nunavut, comes and doesn’t leave for long stretches of time. The Midnight Sun, it’s called, blesses the Arctic Circle with its near-warmth all day and night for months. People spend time outside, running at 11pm, going for long drives, blessed by the planet’s curve and rotation.

But with the blessing of the Midnight Sun comes its opposite - the near-constant darkness of winter. Sometimes the sun rises for an hour or two before going back down. It’s these winter days that Steve feels the farthest away from Brooklyn. The darkness seems to wrap its cold arms around him and touch his sides, pressing against him, and he feels completely alone.

It’s morning, he knows because his alarm blares its incessant beeping into the dark of his bedroom, shades drawn against what is just more darkness. It’s 6, time for his morning run. If he doesn’t go through the motions on days where moving is swimming against the current of time that’s forgotten he’s there, if he doesn’t get up and run and eat and get groceries, then he’ll fall into step with the darkness: constant nothing.

His feet hit the floor and he stretches. His body wants more from him, he notes, as he rises and pads to the bathroom. It wants him to run, fight. It was made for that. It wasn’t made for… for this. For existing, slowly, in Lake View.

The lights in the bathroom startle him when he flicks the switch, and he stares at his reflection in the mirror, scrubs at his beard and watches his own eyes for signs of betrayal, until he comes into himself.  _ I am Steve Rogers, _ he says to the him that stares back.  _ I was born on July 4, 1918. I grew up in Red Hook, Brooklyn. I joined the army. I became bigger and stronger. I was frozen in the Valkyrie. Then the planet warmed, and I thawed out and made my way to Lake View. This is my home now. _

If he doesn’t tell himself these things every day - sometimes twice a day - he worries he’ll forget himself. And he is the only thing he has to connect him to where he came from and who he’s been.

He doesn’t mention Bucky or Peggy out loud. He doesn’t mention any of them - the friends from their Brooklyn street, the Howling Commandos, Howard Stark. It’s hard enough to keep himself alive - he can’t keep them alive, too. Dead as they all likely are by now.

Waiting for the toaster to finish, he leans against the kitchen counter and stares again at his reflection, but now he resides in the window. He could go south easily, to New York, and see who he can find. Maybe Peggy’s alive; she was always a survivor. But that would require…

Once, he Googled New York. The pictures that came up were so unfamiliar to him that he had quickly closed out of the page. It wasn’t home, not even close. And to go there would be to accept that his home is gone, and so is everything that made him.

So he stays.

The toast pops, he eats it. He could put jam on it, or butter, but he doesn’t have much money, and he’s not one for luxury. The old Steve wouldn’t have eaten toast with butter or jam, because those were expensive, and they couldn’t afford it. So this Steve won’t do it, either.

It’s cold out - it always is - so he puts on sweatpants and a sweatshirt before heading out. There are people around, because six is as good a time as any to get up and start the day’s work. He runs down to the lakefront, where there are boats moored and fishermen gathering their things for the day. Steve says hello to them all, even considers stopping and talking but decides against it. The white lamps that buzz quietly above and the sloshing of the water against the wooden docks tell him enough: the quiet is best.

He’s helped out around here plenty of times, lifting heavy nets, untying and tying rope, all tasks the other men can do but allow him to perform.

He runs up into town, then, and passes the deli he works at. He’s good at making small talk when necessary with the customers, and they seem to like him. He’s even better at slicing meat and cheese and making their orders. It’s mindless work, all of it, and as he runs by he sees Jess, a coworker, unlocking the door and pushing it open, then rushing inside to escape the cold. He doesn’t call out to her, and if she sees him at all, she ignores him.

In a town of just under two thousand, it’s only large enough for a post office and a tiny public library with a small collection of books and an old computer for public use. Steve’s pretty much the only person who uses it, because everyone else is too impatient to wait for it to turn on, and for the pages to load behind its glass screen. They call it the Behemoth. He doesn’t care if the computer is slow on the uptake - in fact, it soothes him to press his fingers to the keys and be one with something that is, too, outside of its time. Something that’s lasted too long.

The town is coming alive in the circles of light cast by the street lamps. He sees Barbara pass through one, carrying a large paper bag. He sees Richard walking his husky, Shelley. He sees Meredith with her one-year-old son on her hip and her four-year-old daughter at her side. Everyone appears in the light and disappears, only to reappear a few feet ahead. Through the light, then the dark, then the light, and so it goes on down the street, until Steve stops in front of the candy shop and turns his key in a little side door, takes the stairs up to his apartment two at a time, and robotically, begins the rest of his day.

 

He has to pick up groceries, so once he’s showered and eaten a few eggs, he puts on jeans and a coat and heads back out into the darkness. The street’s as busy as it ever will be, and he says hello to the people who say hi to him. In the two years he’s lived here, he’s pretty sure he’s done something for pretty much everyone in town. It’s not saying much, but people need odd jobs done, and Steve likes odd jobs. When someone needs their gutters cleaned, or furniture moved, they call on Steve. And Steve calls on Captain America. And Captain America does his duty. He’s usually offered a little bit of money, which he usually turns down. Most often, he ends up eating dinner at their house, being told all about their families and their lives, because Captain America is a good listener.

Of course these people don’t know they’re talking to Captain America, have probably never even heard of him. He hasn’t gotten up the courage to Google himself, not since the photos of New York, but he doesn’t quite care what they’ve done with him. Made him a martyr, most likely, and he’s fine with that. He’d let Captain America die for good, if the people of Lake View didn’t need him.

They like Captain America. They tell him about their kids when they see him, and he asks about their various sicknesses, broken legs, sports teams, grades. On summer days the children hang on him in the park and he plays with them, being as gentle as he can be.

Life isn’t bad for Captain America.

Steve makes his way through the narrow aisles, picking up beans and soup, his main diet. He gets more bread and the ingredients for stew. He’ll go by the butcher’s on the way home and get some beef. He’ll treat himself tonight, that’s what.

The cashier, Deb, eyes him and asks how he stays so fit and strong with his diet. He tells her he takes a lot of vitamins. It’s always his response, and people want to believe him, so they do. He pays her and she tells him to stay healthy, and he tells her to do the same.

The butcher’s is next door, and he slips in and out of the cold quickly. The bell rings above the door to signal his presence, and the butcher, Jeffrey, looks up at him.

“Steve!” He smiles. “How’s it going, what can I do for you this fine morning?”

Steve casts the dark outside a glance, and Captain America turns back to smile at Jeffrey. “I’d like some beef. Making a stew tonight,” he says.

“Sounds good. If you have any leftovers, bring me some, now.” Jeffrey turns his back to get the beef, and Steve turns to look out the window. There’s a lamp on the sidewalk that illuminates everyone who walks through it. He waits for someone to pass, something to look at, and then Bucky Barnes emerges from the dark, passes through the light, and recedes from view again, past the window, back into the darkness.

For a moment, Steve thinks nothing of it. Bucky is here - of course he is. Bucky is always, always here.

And yet, in the physical sense, Bucky has never walked down the street. He’s never been anywhere but the back of Steve’s mind, an itch to scratch again and again by diving into a sea of memories filled with childhood days in Brooklyn, near starving to death, and the war fighting side by side. To fall into that sea is a tantalizing temptation that Steve spends almost all his time resisting.

He goes to the window, certain he’s been betrayed by his brain. It wouldn’t surprise him. Those decades in the ice weren’t insurance from the very real possibility of insanity. In fact, insanity seems like an eventuality now. It was only a matter of time before he started to hallucinate.

As he presses his fingers against the icy glass and peers as far to the right as he can, down the street, it occurs to him that he was lucky it took as long as it did. He’ll go from the town’s favorite near-recluse with superhuman strength to the town crazy who talks about seeing his dead best friend walking down the street.

Jeffrey clears his throat. “Seen something?”

“No. Sorry.” Steve returns to the counter and waits for Jeffrey to tell him that  _ you look like you’ve seen a ghost. _

But he doesn’t.

Nothing happens that Steve ever expects - something he’ll learn soon enough.

When he emerges into the day, the sun is starting to come up over the horizon. There it will hang in the sky for a few hours before dipping back down and casting everything into dark once more.


	2. Two

December 25, 2009

“Merry fucking Christmas,” Natalia had said before decking the Soldier in the jaw.

She had found it in a freezer, underground, beneath a building 100 miles north of Moscow. A Hydra hideout. She explained to it that she had snuffed out Hydra - or, enough of them - and that it was free to come with her. It was free to do whatever it wanted.

The Soldier did not know the meaning of the word want, but it had no words for this, so it punched her. That was when she wished it a merry Christmas, and punched it back.

She was good at fighting and held her own for awhile, before it realized it hadn’t received orders to fight this person, and its brain was too cold to keep on going without orders.

It powered down and watched her.

She explained that she was digging through Shield files being nosy, and found some stuff that didn’t add up. She dug further and found Hydra’s fingerprints. So she got together a team - Sharon Carter, Bobbi Morse, other names it didn’t know or care to know - and dug them out. It took months, she said, and dumber people couldn’t have done it. But they did. And the Soldier was, she said again, free to go.

The Soldier didn’t understand this. Freedom. The word’s softness hissed against its ears.

“You have nowhere to go,” Natalia said.

She was right. The Soldier only existed when it was told to exist.

“Come with me then. We have to stick together, I guess, we machines.”

This, the Soldier nearly understood. And it was an order. So it followed.

 

It took nearly a month to teach him that he was a him, not an it. It took another month to get him to remember to go to the bathroom, brush his teeth, comb his hair, take a shower. Natalia was only so patient, and he knew she was frustrated with him. But he couldn’t help it. He might call himself a ‘he’ now, but he was hardly a person.

Part of the way into the third month of living with Natalia, she sat him down at the kitchen table and said, “You know you don’t have to stay here, right? I like having you around for company, but… I’m busy. And I feel like you don’t  _ like _ it here. Do you?”

He didn’t care. He sat completely still and didn’t move a muscle, just stared at her, not blinking.

“Okay… uh, do you… do you want to leave?”

“Where would I go?” He spoke very rarely.

“I don’t know. Anywhere you want to go. Where feels like home?”

Natalia knew who he was. She had said as much. But she wouldn’t tell him. She said that it would just confuse him, would pressure him to be that person.

The Soldier hadn’t known this was a mystery to be solved. He was the Soldier. An Asset. He was not a person.

They chose the name Roger, because it was the only one in the baby names book Natalia brought him that felt familiar.

Even with a name, though, he was barely a person. He just had a new code name. He was still the Soldier.

 

He left on March 10, and headed north, because the cold was familiar to him. He hated how many people were in the city, and how they reminded him that he could do horrible things to them. So north it was, to somewhere there weren’t people to kill, or talk to, or be near.

He kept on taking buses, winding his way up, out of the United States, using a fake passport Natalia had given him. Canada still had too many people, so he just kept going up, into the Arctic Circle, until there were no more buses to take. He hitchhiked for awhile, and stopped when he got tired, in a town called Lake View. It was March 15.

The sign boasted a population of 1,945. He walked right into town. Population: 1,946.

 

It was about noon, and there was snow on the ground. He scanned the buildings, searching for alleyways, rooftops, anywhere to hide, position himself so he could see everyone and everything.

Natalia’s voice in his mind told him that he didn’t need to be scared anymore, that no one was going to hurt him, but he had trouble believing her. Why  _ wouldn’t _ someone hurt him? People always had.

It was occurring to him that he had no orders. What should he do now? Normally he would find somewhere to wait, for hours or even days, until the target was in reach. But he had no target, so he didn’t know where to wait, or when to stop waiting there.

He’d been standing stock still on the sidewalk for an hour and a half when someone small tapped his leg.

“Are you a robot?” the kid asked.

The Soldier tilted his head down to look at him. “What?” His voice was husky.

“Are you lost?” was the follow-up question.

“What?” the Soldier repeated. Normally no one noticed him. That was his objective strung out through every mission: do not get noticed.

By standing in the middle of a street of a small town, though, he hadn’t been carrying out this objective. To be fair.

“Are you a lost robot?” The child was persistent. It -  _ he _ \- had on a blue hat and a red coat and the sight of these colors relaxed something small in the Soldier’s shoulders.

“No.”

“Caleb!” A woman’s voice - she rushed into the Soldier’s view, and he had been so distracted by the child that he hadn’t noticed her. Hyper-vigilance - another constant objective. Failed. “Don’t be rude to strangers, what have I told you?” The child, Caleb, was being scolded now by the woman, and the Soldier did what Natalia had taught him to do and focused on what was happening in the world, outside of his body.

“I’m sorry, sir.” The woman straightened up. “Caleb is just very curious.” He saw her eyeing the metal arm that extended from his t-shirt sleeve. “And… not to be rude, but aren’t you cold?”

“Am I cold?” The Soldier assessed his body. He didn’t... _ think _ so… “Negative.”

“Negative?” She laughed. “Well you must have warm blood then! Or is it cold blood that keeps you warm? What do reptiles have?”

The Soldier didn’t say anything, because he didn’t know the answer. He only knew what was mission-appropriate, and right now, he had no mission.

And if he did, it certainly wouldn’t involve reptiles.

“Reptiles are cold-blooded, I saw it on Animal Planet!” Caleb piped up.

“Yes, right. Thank you, sweetie.” She glanced at Caleb for just a brief moment before training her eyes back on the Soldier in concern. He felt all of his muscles tightening. “Can I...get you anything?”

“No. I need nothing.”

“You look… I’m sorry, it’s just that you look lost.”

“I am lost, but I need nothing.”

Against what must have been her better judgment, the woman decided to press further. “Are you new in town? We love to welcome any new folks.”

“I am new.”

“Well then I  _ insist _ you come in for a bite to eat! I’m making chili tonight! Good for a cold night, right?”

“Yay! We’re having a robot come stay!” Caleb exclaimed.

“Caleb. We do  _ not _ call people robots!” the woman scolded.

The Soldier seriously considers declining the offer because he is not supposed to do this. Making friends with civilians is rarely a mission objective.

But then, he has no mission objectives, and no mission, but he does have a hollow stomach. And Natalia taught him the importance of eating when he’s hungry.

Since he can think of no other way to procure food, he agrees to come home with them.

“Great!” The woman is positively beaming with the spectacle of hospitality. Or, perhaps, her warmth is sincere. “My name is Rebecca.”

“Roger.” The name is stiff, but he has no other choice.

Rebecca and Caleb lead the way to their house. It’s not big, but it is warm when they get inside, and the Soldier sighs with relief. He hadn’t realized until now that he was - cold. Something he hadn’t thought possible for the Winter Soldier to be.

“Take your boots off, and your coat,” Rebecca tells him and Caleb simultaneously, and he shrugs off his jacket and hangs it on the rack by the door. Caleb does the same, and they both bend down to untie their boots.

The Soldier gets a good look at the child, sans hat. He has brown hair, blue eyes, a serious expression as he unties his boots and kicks them off.

Rebecca is in the kitchen when the Soldier straightens up and goes to find her. She puts him to work immediately, telling him to prep a salad. He’s helped Natalia make food these past few months, so, clumsy, with hands that weren’t made for something as gentle as lettuce, the Soldier fills three bowls with lettuce. He’s directed to add carrots, and a knife is slid across the counter toward him.

Caleb is sitting at the kitchen table behind them, working on his homework. The Soldier’s vision tunnels at the sight of the knife. He begins to back slowly away from the counter, until he nearly runs into Caleb, and the boy gives an indignant shout. “Hey!”

“Sorry,” the Soldier says, clumsy. “Where is your bathroom?”

Rebecca gives him a concerned look, and her eyes flash down to Caleb before she says, more uncertain than before, “In the hall. On your right.”

The Soldier doesn’t remember leaving the kitchen or going down the hall, but he becomes aware of himself as he’s kneeling before the toilet, waiting to empty the contents of his stomach.

But there’s nothing there.

The last time he was given a weapon - he was expected to use it against someone. Not to chop carrots with it.

He grips the porcelain with the metal hand, one hard, cold surface on another. He can’t remember what Natalia said to do- he can’t remember where he is, or why he’s here- he can’t go back to the kitchen, where the knife is waiting to be plunged into Caleb’s neck, or Rebecca’s gut.

He can’t kill them, but he can’t keep them alive.

A river is rushing in each of its ears. Its forehead meets the cool of the toilet seat, and its flesh hand is pressed flat against the tiled floor.

A sharp knock comes against the door. “Roger?” Rebecca’s voice.

The Soldier doesn’t respond. It cannot.

“Roger. Are you okay?” She sounds concerned. She should be: concerned for herself, and her child. She doesn’t know how close she is to death, but then, they never know.

Rebecca opens the door and sees him before the toilet. She comes to his side and kneels, places a hand on his back. He flinches, and she immediately lifts it. “Are you okay?” she repeats.

The Soldier turns cold eyes to her. She doesn’t shrink away.

“What’s wrong? Are you going to be sick?”

The Soldier is not going to be sick, but it might kill her. Bash her head against the floor, or the wall of the tub. It could hide her behind the shower curtain and leave her there.

But what about Caleb then? --

“Come back to me,” Rebecca says, firm, and the Soldier is surprised how much she sounds like Natalia. “You’re here. You’re safe,” she says. Her voice is a mix of softness and control.

The Soldier doesn’t say anything.

“Tell me things that you can see. Out loud. Tell me.” It’s a command, and the Soldier knows what to do about commands.

“The floor,” it says. “The wall. The sink. The tub. The toilet. That towel.”

“What color is the towel?”

It takes a moment, but it says, “Yellow.”

“And the other towel?”

“Grey.”

“Good. What color are my eyes?”

“Blue.”

“What color are my son’s eyes?”

“Blue.” He is slowly coming back.

“Good. Very good. I’m going to get you a glass of water and I’ll be right back. Count how long I’m gone,” Rebecca says, standing slowly.

The Soldier obliges, and begins to count.

He gets to 78 before Rebecca returns and hands him a cool glass. “Drink.”

A command.

He obeys.

Some time passes while the Soldier drinks the water.

“I’m a therapist,” Rebecca tells him when he’s finished. “You don’t have to tell me anything. But I might be able to help you. If you want me to.”

The Soldier doesn’t need help. He needs to be alone. He nearly tells her as much, but then Caleb appears in the doorway.

“Roger! Can you do math?”

The Soldier is startled into a response. “Math?”

“Yeah can you do math? Mommy hates math.”

Rebecca shrugs. “Guilty.” She winks at the Soldier. “You can go ahead and help him. I’m sure he’d appreciate it.”

The Soldier gets up slowly, testing out his limbs as if afraid they’d been shut off while he was on the floor. “I’ll see if I can,” he says, and follows Caleb into the kitchen.


	3. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your warm responses to the first two chapters! I can't really offer up a schedule of how fast I'll be getting out chapters, but I will try for one every few days, at the very least one a week.  
> Also, certain liberties will be taken with regards to Lake View. I've never been to Nunavut, so I don't know a whole lot about life up there. (I'm actually not even Canadian, don't tell anyone though.)  
> As before, many thanks to Alycia for all of her help plotting this out!

There’s no bar in town, one of the major downfalls of Lake View, so Sam and Riley invite Steve to drink at their apartment. Steve declines, still a little freaked from seeing his… what? Hallucination?

And anyway, he’s got that stew.

He makes the mistake of telling Sam that he’s making stew, so half an hour later, as he’s leaning against the counter reading, sort of watching the pot, there’s a shout from the street. It’s dark, even though it’s only five.

He does a final stir and carefully folds his book closed before going to the window, pulling up the pane, and peering out.

There’s Sam and Riley, on the street. Sam’s holding a six pack and Riley’s got his hands cupped around his mouth, ready to shout again. “Let us in!”

He doesn’t have an intercom, so he just sighs, closes the window, and heads downstairs to oblige. Maybe it’s best, to have company tonight. Better than sitting in his thoughts, trying to distract himself with a book.

He takes a deep breath before letting them in. “Wanted some of my stew, hm?” he asks, trying to seem...normal. Or almost-normal.

“Hell yeah we did. We never turn down a good home-cooked meal prepared by someone other than us,” Sam says, following Steve up the stairs.

“And I brought salt and pepper,” Riley replies, motioning to his pockets.

“You did not.” Steve is slightly offended, but then, he never got around to actually buying spices of any kind, not even the most basic ones. It’s just another way he can’t let go of the past - or doesn’t want to.

“Yeah and I’m gonna leave em here too,” Riley says. “It’s about time you have edible food, not that army-ration-bullshit.”

Sam slides a glance at Steve as they enter the kitchen, but Steve doesn’t say anything. Sam’s long assumed that Steve was army - he has the look, and he acts...haunted, in a way that Sam can’t put words to. Hell, he and Riley have that same look. And they get far-away sometimes, too, like their bodies are here but their minds have gotten caught in a trap with their demons from the past.

“This smells  _ fuck _ ing amazing,” Riley says, wafting the air toward his nose, and immediately heading to the stove to dump pepper into the pot.

“Thanks for the unsolicited cooking help,” Steve mutters, but he’s not  _ genuinely _ mad. Sam and Riley drag him into the 21st century; it’s not a place he belongs, but it’s a place he knows he needs to be. Something to strive for, at the very least, if he ever begins to feel like striving.

Sam sits down at the kitchen table, a flimsy affair with only two folding chairs. Steve’s apartment isn’t what you’d call ‘nice’ by any means. It came unfurnished, and over the course of the past two years, he’s managed to pull together a kind of Franken-apartment with things gifted to him by other people. Thus, the folding chairs don’t  _ match _ , the toaster’s a finicky thing that fails to pop up half the time, and the bookshelves Steve made himself out of lumber (which he’d gotten as a thanks for hauling it during a winter storm).

While Steve is far from a fine craftsmen or anything resembling a woodworker, the bookshelves do their job remarkably well. Especially considering how many books are crammed into each of them, two behemoths stashed away in corners of the small living room.

Sam pushes aside a sketchbook on the table, and Riley stands over the pot, taking up the job of stirring. Steve hovers, awkward, and then asks, “Do you want something to drink?”

Sam motions to the beer he’d set on the counter. “Hell yeah, man. Can’t come over empty-handed.”

“Right.” Steve’s out of it, and Sam and Riley both notice. Riley glances back over his shoulder to make eye contact with Sam, the thought passing between them that something’s changed. This isn’t normal Steve-being-weird. It’s a new breed of off, and it has them both worried.

The stew gets finished, and ladled into bowls that don’t match each other, and then they all head into the living room. There’s an old couch, comfortable but with some of the stuffing coming out, and all three of them plop themselves down on it. Steve takes up the most room, wide as he is, and Riley and Sam end up pressed against each other, each of them occasionally elbowing the other in the ribs as they eat.

Sam asks Steve how work’s going, and Steve says it’s going fine as usual. It’s not a particularly interesting job, but talking to the customers isn’t bad, and neither is the monotony. After the excitement of his previous life - the every day battle of existence - monotony has come to be a comfort. He doesn’t tell them any of this though. If he told them he’s Captain America, born in 1918, they’d send him quick to the closest psychiatric ward. Maybe they’d even have him flown there in a chopper. No, he’s constantly grateful for his friends’ seeming lack of curiosity about his life. Or, at least, the tact with which they carefully avoid pressing him for details. They think he’s a vet, he has shell shock, he doesn’t want to talk about it. And that’s fine. True, even.

Riley tells him about a weird fish he caught the other day, and Steve acts interested. The conversation turns to the climate, as it often does with Sam and Riley, and a march down in Toronto, how they should all drive down there and make a trip of it. But Steve’s mind is with the Bucky - the  _ hallucination _ \- he saw earlier. Walking down the street. Could Bucky be here? Is there any way?

Logic says no. Of course not. But the small flame of hope he’s been nursing inside of him wants badly to believe that there  _ is _ a way. That the guy he saw walk by really  _ was _ Bucky. Because Bucky being here would give him a reason to be here himself. Not just in Lake View, but in this  _ year _ , this century, out of time but not completely out of place. Because if Bucky can be here, then miracles happen. And maybe, then, Steve himself is some perverse miracle, a science experiment that lasted far longer than anyone expected. But that’s a small comfort when everything feels so goddamn lonely. His whole life, it was Steve’n’Bucky. Now it’s Steve’n’AShittyCouch, Steve’n’AJobAtTheDeli, Steve’n’AnEndlessSupplyOfBooksThatServeAsHisOnlyRespiteFromReality. Just the thought of Bucky possibly being here makes the fact that he isn’t, and that he never will be, that much worse.

It takes awhile, and two beers each, to work it out of him. The alcohol doesn’t affect him, but Sam and Riley are just loose enough to embolden him.

“What’s wrong with you, man, you seem...on edge,” Sam says, taking a swig, eyeing Steve.

He takes a deep breath. “I… it’s nothing big, it’s just.” He can’t get up the courage to look at either of them. “For some reason earlier today I… thought I saw an old friend.”

“And?” Riley presses, confused.

“He’s dead.” The bluntness of the words, their harsh sounds and edges, can’t hold the pain of Bucky’s death inside of them. They can’t capture how it felt to lose him, the one thing he’d ever had to hold onto. How losing Bucky felt like falling in the dark. And how he’s landed here, on his back, and can’t seem to get up.

Sam lets out of a soft sigh, and Riley seems to sink into the couch a little.

“Sorry, man,” Sam says after awhile. “That’s no good. Grief’s a bitch.”

“Yeah but it doesn’t matter,” Steve says quickly, trying to clear the air that he’d made heavier.

“Nah, it matters,” Sam replies. “No need to pretend that shit doesn’t hurt like a mother.”

Steve coughs, shakes his head, looks at his lap. “Yeah. It really does.” It happened...decades ago, now, but it doesn’t feel that far away. Even here. Every time it snows it smells like the Alps did that day on the train. Every damn time, he thinks of Bucky falling, Bucky hitting the ground, dead on impact.

No one could have survived that fall.

“So you saw a look-alike, got spooked,” Riley says. “It happens.”

“Yeah.” He takes a breath and it shakes on its way in. “So I’m a little...off.”

“That’s what friends are for,” Sam says, clapping his shoulder. “To help get you back on again.”

 

Steve’s up to his forearms in soapy water, cleaning the dishes, when Sam comes up to lean on the counter next to him. Riley’s in the living room, digging through Steve’s large collection of books to find one to borrow.

“So uh, tough day,” Sam says, his eyes trained on Steve’s face.

“Not one of my best,” Steve replies. “But not one of my worst, either.”

“Still. It really sucks, I mean it.”

Sam knows so little about Steve, and he wants to ask - who’s the friend? Did he die in the war? Before? After?

“He’s been dead for a long time and I thought I was done with this,” Steve says, not sparing him a glance. “This whole...messy thing. I thought I could be over it. I guess not.”

“Look, it’s okay not to be,” Sam replies. “You seem like you got a  _ lot _ of shit to work through, and hey, that’s fine. So do I, so does Riley. It’s a by-product of war.” He’s going out on a limb here, but it’s a calculated risk.

Steve’s eyes snap up. “How’d you know?”

“Just knew.” A shrug. “I don’t care, you know, that you didn’t tell me. I mean, I  _ wish _ you would’ve… But it’s fine. You don’t have to tell me anything. But it might help if you told  _ someone _ .”

“Like who?”

“Like a therapist. Or something. Just a wild idea and there’s not a wealth of them here, but… it might help. You seem pretty rattled, that’s all.” He touches his shoulder, briefly, makes eye contact for a moment, and then turns to join Riley in the living room.

Steve stares down at the dirty, soapy water and thinks about messes.

 

It’s not a long walk back to their apartment, but once on the street, Riley says, “Listen, I know you think I’m insane, and I probably am, but I’m  _ just _ saying, Captain America’s best friend died.”

“Lots of people’s friends die,” Sam says, tired of hearing Riley’s crackpot ideas.

“Okay I know, but it’s not a coincidence his name is Steve and he looks  _ just _ like those old pictures!”

“Captain America - Steve fucking Rogers - whoever - is dead, dude. You gotta drop this before I send you off, okay?” It wouldn’t really bother him so much except that there’s no real good argument  _ against _ it other than the obvious: how could he possibly have survived?

Riley, of course, has an explanation for this: the superhero serum saved him in the crash, somehow slowed down his aging, voila, he’s been bumming around Canada for decades.

“Listen, man, even if the science was foolproof - which it’s  _ not- _ ” Sam starts, and Riley interrupts him.

“You thought I was making up Bruce Banner,” he points out. “And Thor. And - you thought all those guys were phonies. But they’re  _ not _ , CNN, the Guardian, the New York Times, the Toronto Star - they all fucking verified  _ everything _ . This shit does happen.”

“Look, that guy is  _ not _ Captain America,” Sam tells him firmly. “You sound like my grandma when she watches conspiracy shows on TV.”

“Have it your way. All I know is, we just had dinner with Steve fucking Rogers, American goddamn hero, World War II veteran. And he thought he saw his best friend Bucky-”

Sam’s already jogging away, calling back, “Catch up with me when you’re ready to be sane!”

“Oh I’m  _ way _ ahead of you,” Riley mutters under his breath, before he breaks into a run.


	4. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> posting this sort of short-ish chapter now because my friend's coming to stay for a long weekend and I doubt I'll get any writing time in until next week, but didn't want to just leave this hanging!

The Soldier is not able to help Caleb much with math. He doesn’t remember this, but when he was in school, he was much more interested in holding whispered conversations in the back of the classroom, or reading comics under his desk, or passing notes back and forth with Steve. That was before they both stopped going to school, because their families needed money, and education was for the rich.

And of course, there was never any need for Hydra to teach their biggest Asset how to do pre-Algebra.

If they had, he may have learned that he was x, and it would be best to isolate himself by multiplying, dividing, and subtracting everyone else in the room.

Add to the equation the thought of  _ freedom _ , of an unknown variable finally emerging onto the other side of the equal sign to realize that its power is equal to the power of the rest of them added together… it would have made for dangerous conditions.

Caleb and the Soldier struggle through a few problems, with Caleb explaining it to him rather than the other way around. The Soldier finds himself calming in the pursuit of understanding. He even pages through the textbook that’s lying on the table, untouched by Caleb.

Rebecca watches from the other side of the kitchen, cooking but keeping an eye on them. The Soldier is acutely aware of her every moment, her every breath. Each time she lifts the plastic spoon, lowers it into the pot on the stove. She must know how aware he is. All of his senses are on fire, overload, and she has to be able to tell. Yes?

They eat when the food is ready, and it’s mostly quiet. Caleb explains what fifth grade is like, and how he’s in advanced classes for his age, and reads at an eighth grade level.

The Soldier hadn’t been wondering these things, but now that he knows, he feels somewhat better. He  _ knows _ Caleb; he cannot kill him.

He has never known a target before. If there’s any way to break free from being the Soldier, it would be to become more human than machine.

That won’t be easy - he hears the whirring, clicking of his arm as he eats - but he doesn’t know any other way out but that.

 

***

 

Rebecca knows that it isn’t in her or her son’s best interest to let a stranger stay the night in the house, but this man has nowhere else to go. He was lost, cold, and clearly alone. The plan really, truly  _ had _ been to invite him for dinner and let him go on his way. But then with that panic attack in the bathroom… It tugged on her heartstrings, what can she say?

She isn’t stupid, though. She knows that when dinner is over and she finds herself offering, “You can stay on our couch tonight if you have nowhere else to sleep,” that it isn’t a good idea. She briefly hopes he’ll say no - an awful thought, but she has Caleb to think of too.

Caleb. Who, for the record, gets so excited when she offers it. He’s already been hanging on Roger’s every word (which isn’t many at all). He asks Roger if they can watch a movie before bed, and she says no, because it’s already 8:30.

She hates saying no to everything, and she wishes for what feels like the millionth time that she could be the good cop, just every now and then. But that would require having a bad cop, and there’s no one to take up that mantle.

Roger agrees to stay, and she drapes some spare sheets over the couch and digs a pillow out of the hall closet for him.

She says goodnight, tells him where he can get a glass of water if he gets thirsty in the middle of the night, and then heads down the hall to make sure Caleb’s ready for bed.

He’s sitting on his bed with a  _ Diary of a Wimpy Kid _ book, and he looks up when she comes in. She closes the door, gently, and it clicks into place in the frame. She sits next to him.

“Roger is weird but I like him,” Caleb says.

“Me too, honey.”

“Is he okay? He was all alone. Does he have a house?”

“I don’t know. I’m hoping to figure that out tomorrow,” Rebecca says. She feels a little in over her head. She doesn’t know this guy at all. Is she just bringing her work home now?

“If he doesn’t have a house he can stay with us,” Caleb says, confident.

Rebecca sighs. “Maybe, baby, maybe he can.” She smooths his hair. “How about just for tonight you come sleep with Mommy?”

Caleb groans, dodges out from under her touch. “Why?”

“Just don’t want to be lonely.” Really, she doesn’t want him to sleep alone with a strange man in the house. It’s justified, right?

Caleb flops on his bed, dramatic, but in the end, she manages to convince him, and he trudges up to her room and falls asleep under the covers within minutes.

 

***

 

The next morning, the Soldier very seriously considers running when he wakes up. Running to somewhere else; running to stop being. He nearly does it, too. He rubs his eyes, swings his feet over the edge of the couch. He got maybe two hours of sleep, but it’s plenty.

There’s noise in the kitchen, and he thinks he could sneak out the door in the living room, and just start running. (He doesn’t know it, but if he ran, now, he would see Steve on one of his own morning runs.)

He gets up and starts toward the door, gets halfway there before Caleb comes into the room. “You’re up! Good! Do you want to walk with me to the bus stop?”

Rebecca appears next to him, holding a mug. “You really don’t have to, but he’d love to show you off to his friends.”

“The bus stop for what?” the Soldier asks. He’s out of practice at being a person. He forgets what it entails.

“School! Duh!” Caleb hits his own forehead, as if he were the one who had made the mistake.

“Oh.” The Soldier shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and it feels good to move like this, casually, as a real person might, throwing off the stiffness of the night and the couch.

“Will you come though?” Caleb insists.

“Yes.” The question sounded enough like a command - or maybe he really wants to go - it’s difficult to discern his own motivations. Does he do things because the Soldier would do them, or does he do things because Roger wants to?

Caleb finishes off his cereal as Rebecca asks the Soldier how he slept, and the Soldier said he slept very well. It takes Natalia in his brain telling him to have manners for him to add, “Thank you for letting me sleep here.”

“Of course.” A silence falls in the kitchen then, but it’s quickly broken by Caleb’s spoon clattering on the table.

“I’m done!” he calls out.

“I’ve honestly never seen him this excited to go to school,” Rebecca tells the Soldier, raising her eyebrows as if they share some secret, the two of them.

The Soldier just nods slowly. Maybe somewhere in the back of his thawing brain, a memory of school tickles him, but he doesn’t reach back to scratch it, or even to look directly at it. It would be dangerous.

“I’m glad I can help then,” he replies, after too long a pause.

“You’ll come back and I’ll make you eggs and toast, alright?” Rebecca says.

It’s a suggestion more than a command, but the Soldier says, “Yes, ma’am,” anyway.

Rebecca frowns just slightly, but the Soldier has turned away and is being led out the door by Caleb.

The boy talks the whole walk down the street. It’s dark outside, and the Soldier thinks that Caleb shouldn’t be out here alone. He should have some supervision.

It takes a few moments for him to realize that he  _ is _ the supervision.

He tries to listen to what Caleb’s saying, but it takes a lot of concentration that he doesn’t quite have this early in the morning. He hopes it’s enough to just walk next to him.

When they get to a clump of other children standing in a globe of light underneath a street lamp, Caleb says, “Everybody this is Roger! He’s new in town and he’s staying with us!”

“I  _ stayed _ with you,” Roger - the Soldier corrects.

“Whatever, we’ll see,” Caleb says, in a sing-song voice.

“Have a good day at school,” the Soldier says, the words sounding robotic even though he does really mean them.

Caleb pretends to gag himself. “Whatever!”

The Soldier walks back to Rebecca’s house slowly, wondering when the sun will begin to rise over the horizon.

 

Once he has eggs, toast, and coffee, Rebecca seems to sense that he’s more awake, and she asks him, “What are you doing in Lake View, Roger?”

“Ended up here,” he tells her.

“From where?”

“Washington, DC.”

“That’s far.”

He bites off a piece of toast, animalistic.

“What are your plans? Do you know anyone here?”

“No.”

“Do you have a place to stay?”

“I could stay at a hotel?” It’s a question, because he doesn’t know how that process works, or if there is a hotel, or if he’s allowed to stay there.

“For how long?” Rebecca seems more alarmed than he thinks she should be.

“Until I find somewhere to stay.”

“Until you…” She rests her chin in her hands. She looks like Natalia used to when he said something she thought was sad, or strange. He can’t quite tell the difference.

“Until I find somewhere to stay,” he repeats.

“That could take awhile. Do you have money?” she asks him. “Do you have a job?”

“I have money, no job.”

Rebecca sighs. She looks...resigned. That was how Natalia used to look a lot. Or maybe it’s something else. He doesn’t  _ know _ . “Well then. Our couch will be open for you until you find a job. I’m not sure Caleb would forgive me if I let you stay at a hotel.”

Because he doesn’t know what else he would do, and because staying alone at a hotel scares him, he says, “Okay.” Because if he’s alone for too long, the Soldier might take over completely. It might tighten the grip it already has on him, on his heart, and it might squeeze anything of Roger out of him.

So he will stay.


	5. Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your support so far! Kudos, bookmarks, and comments mean more to me than I can express through humble words. I will proceed to thank you in the form of Stucky. Enjoy.

Steve isn’t convinced that the person he saw was even real at all. It’s beginning to feel more like an apparition, or Steve’s own mind turning against him. He doesn’t think much about therapy. It would cost money he doesn’t have, and strength he can’t find. It would be a waste of everyone’s time, too, because he knows he isn’t willing to tell the therapist what he would really need to talk about. All the shit he’s seen in his too-long, too-weird life.

No, there’s no one he can talk to -  _ really _ talk to - and maybe this was his brain’s way of reminding him.

He meets Sam for lunch the next day, on Sam’s request; he can sense that Sam and Riley are worried and don’t want him to be alone. He can’t blame them, he actually feels the exact same way. He really shouldn’t be alone right now, not while his brain is trying to make things up to mess with him.

Sam’s immediately going on about a rescue mission they did that morning, and how Riley’s engine snagged, and Sam thought he was about to fall out of the sky.

“It was scary, man,” he says, lifting his soda to his lips. “Got me freaked.”

“I’m glad he’s okay,” Steve says earnestly. Sam and Riley do search and rescue, and Steve knows it’s noble and he’s glad they do it, but it seems so risky. He doesn’t want to lose another friend to the cold.

“Yeah I mean, it’s all good now,” Sam says. “But...gets you thinking.”

The air becomes a little more stifled than usual, as Sam doesn’t say anything. Steve waits, though, knowing there’s more coming if he just gives it a little time. They’re sitting in a small restaurant, four tables, plastic chairs. The clock on the wall is fire engine red, and Steve watches it for a moment, taking his eyes off of Sam to give him space to clear his head. The second hand makes its way slowly around the face once, then twice, before Sam speaks again.

“Like you think you have time to do everything. Then something happens and you’re like, shit. Did I miss my chance?”

Steve knows what that feels like. He knows  _ exactly _ what that feels like. He tightens his fingers on his fork. “Yeah. But he’s okay.”

“He’s okay. This time. And our job’s not  _ that _ dangerous, and I know that, and I’m glad. We’re not out there risking our lives every day, and it’s fine. I keep thinking we have time.”

The clock is an hour behind, Steve notices.

“But maybe we don’t. Who knows when anybody’s time is?”

Steve isn’t used to hearing Sam talk like this, and it’s freaking him out. Plus he isn’t entirely sure what Sam is  _ saying _ . He knows the words he’s speaking, but what does he really mean? “You’re making the most of it, you are,” he says, a shot in the dark. “You spend lots of time together. You live together.”

He’s finally looking at Sam, and when Sam makes eye contact with him, he can see that this wasn’t the right answer. He got it wrong.

“Yeah, but we aren’t making the  _ most _ of it,” Sam says, very carefully. “We’re not…” He takes a few breaths, then shakes his head. “Nevermind.”

“No, what do you mean?” Steve insists. “What does making the most of it mean?”

“It’s like being, uh. Together when we’re together.”

Steve’s trying his hardest not to be frustrated, but...what the hell? “You mean in the moment?” He read a book by Eckhart Tolle about being in the moment. Doesn’t mean he’s any good at it, but he’s trying - slowly crawling his way here from 1945 is difficult, though. And maybe this is kind of what Sam means. Being in the moment while you still have somebody. He thinks every day about times he should have been more  _ there _ when he was with his mom, or Bucky, or Peggy, or any of them. Times he sat inside drawing while Bucky sat on the fire escape in the New York heat, smoking a cigarette, and they could have been  _ together _ . But he didn’t know their days were so numbered then. Sure, he could have died any time, but he’d escaped death so many times it never felt like a real possibility.

Still didn’t.

“Kind of, yeah. Let’s just forget about it, okay?” Sam says, snapping Steve back to the presence with enough speed that he doesn’t think before he replies.

“I want to know what you really mean. You guys are best friends. You spend a lot of time with him. You’re making the most of it. What are you doing  _ wrong _ ? If I could go back and live with my- my friend, again, I’d do it in a heartbeat. So you’re still there, you’re still with him. What’s missing, huh? You have it all.” He knows he’s being harsh, but he doesn’t like to feel slow, and he feels so slow here.

Sam’s looking down at the tablecloth, picking at it where there’s a rip in the fabric. “Fine. I’ll spell it out. We’re best friends but sometimes it feels like we should be more than that. And that kills me, because we aren’t, and I don’t know if we ever will be.”

It finally dawns on him, and he sits there staring at Sam for a moment, not sure what to say or do or  _ think _ . Is Sam saying he wants to be with Riley - in a relationship? “I didn’t know you were…” he says, slowly.

He knows things have changed with regards to that stuff, and he never had a problem with any of it, personally. Hell, he got called a fairy enough himself, in back alleys and broad daylight, walking down the street. It was just because he was small and skinny, and they said the same kinds of things about men who were with men. But that wasn’t Steve’s experience. He knew a few guys who never said it outright, never even hinted close, but people kind of knew. They were alright. Bucky told him once about a guy down at the docks --

 

_ “Found out about a fella today who works with me, he’s crooked. Or… I know that’s not good to say or whatever but you know what I mean, right?” _

_ “You mean he’s homosexual?” _

_ “Shh! Steve, Jesus.” _

_ “We’re alone, Buck.” _

_ “You never know, these walls are so thin.” _

_ “Well so is that all you wanted to tell me about, huh?” _

_ “Well he’s just a nice guy. You wouldn’t think just by meeting him, he’s strong and everything too. Real nice, dirty mouth and everything like that.” _

_ “Huh.” _

_ “I guess I don’t get the whole big deal about it. So what, if they’re a good guy and they do good work and shit I don’t see why everybody gets all upset.” _

_ “In the Bible it says.” _

_ “Well fuck your Bible.” _

_ “Yeah, I guess so.” _

 

They never talked about it very directly, that was as head on as they faced the whole thing, but Steve’s never had an issue. Like Bucky said - if they’re a good person it doesn’t matter. Steve’s pretty sure he thought about it way more than he ever talked about it, though. He always wondered what it was  _ like _ \- what their lives were like. What it was like to like guys like you like girls. None of his thoughts on the subject were particularly coherent, and no conversations he and Bucky had - or barely had - were coherent, either.

The last one that neared the subject was on the front, in the rain, while Steve was on watch and the Howling Commandos slept. Bucky crept out of his tent, just canvas slung over a branch tonight, and came to sit next to Steve in the dark. The fire had been put out by the torrent by now, and the woods were quiet but for the steady patter of rain.

Bucky’s voice was serious when he said, “Steve.”

Steve glanced at him, then back at the line of trees he had been watching. “Yeah?”

“You know how guys sometimes come out here, don’t really see women for awhile sometimes, and sometimes they get, you know, itchy?” Bucky sounded strange.

Steve looked up, closed his eyes against the rain. He did know. He missed Peggy all the time. He barely knew her, and he had to keep reminding himself, but it felt like they were at the precipice of something and couldn’t jump yet, like some invisible force was holding them both back. “‘Course.”

“Well you know how they sometimes…” Bucky made a couple of gestures, and Steve just looked at him.

“Yeah, why? You heard something?” He glanced around them.

“Nah. Just think it’s interesting, you know, what desperate guys have to do sometimes.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, sweet dreams.” He clapped Steve on the shoulder, then got up and went back into his tent.

All things considered, it was one of the strangest conversations Steve had ever had with Bucky - and they had had quite a few strange conversations.

Sam snaps him back by saying, “I am. Queer.”

“Qu-” Steve starts to repeat it, but it’s not something to say in polite company, and he remembers being called a queer himself. Being kicked on the street, Bucky saving his ass and not quite looking at him the same way for a few hours afterwards. “Don’t say that.”

“Man, what is this, 1950?” Sam raises an eyebrow. “I’ll say whatever I want to say about my own sexuality, thanks.”

“Sorry. I’m sorry.” Why would he ever  _ call _ himself that though? “There’s a lot I don’t really understand about that stuff.”

“Yeah, I’m getting that…” Sam says slowly. “You don’t have to be an expert. But it’s time you knew.”

“Of course. Were you two hiding it from me, or?” He hopes not, but then, maybe they thought he was against that. Or he’d be weirded out.

“Well I wasn’t.” Sam looks guilty. “Maybe a little. Riley and I are complicated.”

“Explain complicated. I want to understand,” Steve says. He wants to mend whatever he fucked up, if he even did.

“It’s like… I’m into him. Helplessly. And we’ve fucked, but we’ve never made anything official, and it’s usually kind of drunken and in the moment,” he said. “So I don’t know how he feels. He’s confusing.” Sam at least seems a little relieved to be talking to Steve about this.

“Have you asked him?” It’s blunt, and obvious, but it’s the only thing Steve can think of in the wake of this, this realization. Sam and Riley both like men. Sam actively  _ calls _ himself queer. And he knows nothing about any of this stuff.

Maybe there’s a reason, lurking deep in there somewhere, why he’s read books on Buddhism and trees and farming techniques and piles upon piles of mysteries, horror, thrillers, even dipped his toes in some romance, but he’s never read anything about… that.

But he doesn’t have time to explore that right now.

“Of course I haven’t asked him! I can’t just ruin my friendship on a whim!” Sam exclaims. “I’m not making shit awkward, fuck that.”

“Well it’s the only way to know,” Steve insists. “Or else you’ll wonder forever.”

“Not forever,” Sam grumbles.

“You did start this out by saying you didn’t want to regret not being anything with him,” Steve points out, finding his stride in this conversation at last.

“Don’t use my own words against me,” Sam says, holding up a finger and wagging it at Steve.

“Just saying.” Steve shrugs and leans back in his chair. “You said it, I just repeated it.”

Sam groans. He knows Steve has a point, and he puts his head in his hands for a long moment. Steve’s attention turns back to the clock. He watches the second hand move slowly.

“I’ll think about it,” Sam says finally. “Just like you’ll be thinking about therapy, right?”

Steve’s a little caught off-guard, but he says, “Sure.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “I’m at least 150% sure you forgot.”

“I didn’t forget!”

And everything’s back to normal. Or, parallel to normal. Because Steve feels he’s been shifted, somehow.


	6. Six

_“I could recognize him by touch alone, by smell; I would know him blind, by the way his breaths came and his feet struck the earth. I would know him in death, at the end of the world.” --Madeline Miller, The Song of Achilles_

The Soldier settles quickly into a routine with Rebecca and Caleb. He walks Caleb to school in the morning, then comes back and eats breakfast with Rebecca before she leaves for work. While she’s gone, he does small chores around the house, tidying things up, dusting, whatever he can to feel he’s earning his keep in some way. He tries to give Rebecca money the second morning, but she refuses it, tells him that he’s not a renter, he’s a guest. He protests, and they come to an agreement: he’ll buy some of the groceries.

He has a mishap with the dishwashing soap and the dishwasher, and Rebecca comes home to find him sitting on a chair in the kitchen staring forlornly at the suds covering the floor.

Rebecca is incredibly patient, and Caleb is endlessly entertaining to the Soldier. He hasn’t interacted with a child in his entire life (as far as he knows), and Caleb’s curiosity and intelligence impress the Soldier every day. He’s always coming home with new facts to tell Rebecca and the Soldier, and they listen politely. Caleb is good to have around because he talks enough for both himself and the Soldier. He introduces the Soldier to some very interesting books about space, nature, bugs, and other cool stuff. The Soldier discovers that the ocean hosts loads of terrifying fish and other weird creatures. He learns things that he’s certain he already knows, but can’t remember learning.

On the seventh day, after the Soldier has left the house only twice a day to take Caleb to the bus stop and to pick him up from it, Rebecca hands him a grocery list over their scrambled eggs. “I need you to go to the grocery and get these things, and then go to the deli and pick up some meat for Caleb’s lunches. Do you know where the grocery and deli are?”

The Soldier doesn’t know, so he just stares, waiting for direction.

“If you walk like you’re taking Caleb to the bus but then you just keep going and turn right on Main, they’re along that street.”

The Soldier nods, and makes plans to leave the house once she’s gone, nerves setting in immediately.

***

Life goes on normally for a little while. Steve doesn’t quite feel the same since seeing Bucky - or not-Bucky - but everything falls back into place slowly, as things are wont to do. Steve craves normalcy now more than he ever has in his life, especially more than he had in the first part. The _normal_ part. He remembers the shoebox apartments he and his mother lived in, and then the one he had alone until he near got evicted and Bucky came in to save his ass and live with him. They were always so small, and life was out on the streets. He’d walk up and down the sidewalks when he was feeling okay, he’d find the statue of liberty and look out at it and think about all the places people were coming from. He and Bucky would walk across the bridge into Manhattan and see all the people and cars and signs, somehow shinier than Brooklyn, but only because it wasn’t quite home.

The doorbell jingles and he’s shaken from his memories to look up at--

 

It isn’t Bucky. It cannot possibly be Bucky. Nevermind that this guy has Bucky’s face, his eyes and nose and lips, all things that Steve remembers crystal clear - or, _thought_ he remembered. But how many times since waking up has he cleared his mind of thoughts of him, to save himself from the pain of it? It’s possible that this is just wishful thinking. He wants so badly for it to be Bucky.

But it isn’t, it’s just a customer with Bucky’s same...everything.

“Hello!” he says finally, after a moment of he and Bucky staring at each other. He and _the stranger_ staring at each other.

“I need these things.” The voice is rough, and the movements as the man shoves a crumpled list onto the counter with a gloved hand are calculated.

Steve picks up the list and peers at it. Fairly standard. He turns, reluctant to look away, and starts to prepare the order. He glances back every few moments to see the man standing stock still. He has a soldier’s eyes, a calculating gaze to match his movements. Outside the window the sun has started to come up and cast light into the world. It illuminates the snow on the ground.

The winter is so brutal.

Steve wants to linger, but another customer has come in behind the man, a woman who comes in regularly. He puts the man’s order in a bag and hands it to him. “Are you new in town?” he asks, stalling and shameless.

The man nods.

“Steve.” Steve holds out his hand to shake.

A gloved hand meets his and shakes, firm. The man’s eyes don’t quite meet Steve’s. “Roger.”

The corners of Steve’s lips upturn just slightly in amusement, but no one here knows his last name, and he isn’t interested in changing that. So he doesn’t say anything. “It’s nice to meet you. Come in anytime.”

Roger’s gaze finally clicks into place, and he and Steve are staring straight at each other.

Outside, the waves of the lake lap at the shore. A bird takes flight, announcing its arrival to the sky. The sun inches upwards, pulled by some invisible force, because it can’t hide below the horizon forever.

The door jingles again and Roger is out on the street before Steve remembers where he is.

*** 

Steve shows up at Sam and Riley’s that night, right after his shift is over, unannounced. He knocks on the door frantically and stares at the wood while he waits for someone to come answer it. He can’t be alone with his thoughts, not right now. It looked like Bucky. It sounded like Bucky did in the morning, or after a long day, or when they were running through a Hydra base and Bucky was barking cold directions to him. But it _can’t_ be Bucky.

 _You’re here,_ Steve’s mind reminds him, a betrayal of trust.

Steve knows that he’s an outlier. The only person in the world this could have happened to. And it must have been the serum, keeping him alive all that time, frozen. He doesn’t know the science behind it, doesn’t necessarily care to; all he knows is that Bucky cannot possibly have survived and looked exactly the same now as he did then. And he cannot possibly have made his way to this tiny town. And if it was Bucky, he would remember Steve.

He would remember him.

All of this is logical, and yet there’s still a voice in the back of his mind that screams at him: this is Bucky.

Sam swings the door open, expression guarded until he sees it’s Steve, and then he smiles. “What a surprise.”

“Sorry to come unannounced,” Steve says. “You two busy?”

“Steve!” Riley’s voice comes from the living room. “Come in! We’re just binging Breaking Bad.”

“Oh. Well I don’t want to interrupt…” Steve watches Sam’s expression carefully, hoping he isn’t missing any huge signals, like, _Leave us the fuck alone._

“You’re not interrupting,” Sam says, shaking his head, conveying...disappointment. Steve frowns.

“Are you-”

“Not here, man,” Sam hisses. “Jesus. Come get a beer and keep your trap _shut_.”

Steve hopes things between them can gravitate back toward normal soon. “Sorry.” He holds up his hands in surrender.

He goes and plops down on the couch, opens a beer, and Sam sits down next to him. There’s silence - Breaking Bad is still paused. They’re flanking him. Right there. They’re not _replacements_ for Bucky, no one could ever be. No one could know what he’s been through.

Not even Bucky. Not even stone dead Bucky.

His mind drifts to where Bucky’s body _is_ , something he’s thought about too often over the years. Did anyone ever find it? Some hikers? Heaven forbid, soldiers? Was he disfigured? Did they bury him?

“No one could survive a fall off a cliff, right?” Steve asks suddenly, shattering the silence with the sudden question.

“What kinda cliff we talking?” Riley asks. “Fifty feet? Hundred? Into water?”

“Snow. More than a hundred.” He’s not looking at either of them; he’s looking at Bucky’s face as it falls.

Bucky’s face in the deli.

“Nah.” Sam lifts his drink to his lips, then thinks better of it. “Why?”

“Is there such a thing as...look-alikes? Like, scary close look-alikes?” Steve asks instead of answering.

“What like twins?” Riley laughs.

“No, like...doppelgangers, but it’s...almost an exact replica.” _I would know Bucky anywhere._

“Sure. There’s pictures all over the internet of strangers who meet each other and look exactly alike,” Riley says. “Why?”

“Nothing, I just saw the guy again.” Steve draws his lips tight. “He came into the deli. He really looks like…” He shakes his head, can’t even say his name out loud.

He doesn’t see Riley and Sam exchange a look behind his head.

“Did you talk to him?” Sam asks.

“Yeah, talked to him, but he didn’t have a lot to say. His name’s Roger. He must be new. You guys heard anything about a new guy?” he asks, finally making eye contact with first Sam and then Riley - giving Riley time to wipe the knowing smile off his face.

“Nah but we can ask around,” Riley says solemnly. “Maybe dig up some dirt. Nobody moves here without word getting out somehow.”

“This is about to sound like a batshit idea,” Sam says, choosing his words carefully. “But if you see him again, maybe you ask him to grab food and drinks with us? The four of us together, if you’d be more comfortable. But getting to know him a little could prove that, you know. It’s not _him_.”

Steve thinks it over for a moment. There’s a small hope blooming in his stomach that it _is_ Bucky… but it’s a false hope, and he knows that, and he needs to stamp it out. He needs to talk to Roger again to prove that to himself. Roger is his own person.

Maybe he’s forgetting what Bucky looks like. As impossible as it seems, it would be even more impossible for Roger to _be_ Bucky.

“Sure. Yeah. My friend died a long time ago,” he says firmly. “And this guy...isn’t him.”

“Exactly.” Sam claps him on the back. “But fresh meat in town? We totally gotta scope him out. He our age?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. _He’s your age. Not mine._

“Cool. Maybe a new friend. I was getting tired of the two of you anyway,” Riley tells them, reaching for the remote and pressing play.


	7. Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow I'm alive and I'm back. I'm so sorry that this chapter took so long. I'm living across the country this summer (in ~colorful colorado~) and I'm trying to do as much cool stuff as I can which, recently, involved a trip to Utah. I'm also trying to make $$$ so a lot of hours end up being swallowed by work. I'm also writing a paper for an academic conference at the end of the month and having stress dreams about it, so working on this is a serious breath of fresh air. I can't promise super timely updates for the next few weeks, what with said conference and all, but I will try to get them out to you as often as I possibly can. for now, enjoy this! x

Steve doesn’t see Roger for a few days, which is odd, because in this town, you’re bound to run into someone you know every time you step outside the house. And he  _ does _ run into people he knows - plenty of them, pleasant people who are exactly not who he wants to see. He’s dying to catch even a glimpse of Roger again, to see something this time that proves -  _ aha! _ \- it can’t be Bucky.

Because Bucky’s being dead doesn’t prove it enough, clearly.

He meets Sam for lunch again and he asks him if he and Riley could dig up any dirt on this guy, or try to. Ask around and stuff. For fun. Obviously just for fun, not because of a deep and frankly disturbing desire to prove once and for all that Roger  _ is not _ Bucky Barnes, Dead Walking.

Zombies exist, right?

He’s going crazy.

“I’m going crazy, Sam. I need something here, anything you can give me. A birthday. A last name. Anything. Please.”

“Alright, alright!” Sam laughs. Because he’s staring a very desperate man in the face and that’s all he  _ can _ do.

“Thank you.”

 

Sam and Riley can’t turn up anything about him, though. They do find out he’s staying with Rebecca, and when Sam tells Steve, he gives him a significant look and says, “You know, she’s the only shrink this place has.”

Steve doesn’t say anything. He’s frustrated. He’s sick. He probably needs a therapist.

 

He resolves to ask Roger to hang out with them, next time he runs into him. He resolves, too, not to go running past Rebecca’s place every day at random hours until he runs into Roger.

His resolve is weak, though, and he knows exactly where she lives because he did some roofing work for her when a winter storm blew her shingles off the roof. He didn’t know how to roof, until he heard what she was going to have to pay to get it fixed, and then he found a book and climbed up there and did it his damn self.

She paid him in a home cooked meal every night for a week. Caleb had seemed glad for the company, showing him this and that cool toy or interesting book or telling him weird facts he knew. He was a smart kid.

It’s on the second jog by her house that it hits him: Roger and Rebecca must be … a thing. Dating, or in a relationship. If they were married it would have been in the paper, but they could be a couple. Or something.

He doesn’t know why it took him this long to realize. It should have been obvious. Why would a mysterious guy come all the way up here and start living with a pretty, respectable woman if they weren’t dating?

Oh, right. Because  _ Bucky _ wouldn’t do that.

But Bucky isn’t Roger. Roger isn’t Bucky.

And Steve  _ is _ crazy.

He’s about to turn around and head home when Rebecca’s door opens and out walks Bucky.

Roger.

Steve slows down and raises a hand to wave. “Hey!”  _ Is this what crazy people do? _

“Hello.” The door is still open, and Roger is slowly edging back over the threshold, into warmth and safety.

“I was just on a run,” Steve says, uselessly. His mind is about 15% focused on acting like a normal person, 85% focused on  _ this isn’t Bucky this isn’t Bucky this is Bucky _ . It can’t be. 

“Oh.” Roger pauses, considers.

“Are you… are you headed somewhere?”

“Just to get the mail.” He still hasn’t moved from the doorway.

Steve holds up his hands. “Well don’t let me stop you!”

Roger nods slowly, then starts down the short walk, to the mailbox. He doesn’t put his back to Steve, instead reaching over top of the post to open the box.

A soldier. Must be.

“You’re new here, so a couple of buddies and I were wondering if you might be interested in getting some food with us. Food and drinks. There’s a bar, twenty minutes north, we go sometimes.” He’s talking too much, but he has to fill Roger’s cavernous silence.

“A bar,” Roger repeats. He looks, frankly, shocked. Maybe he doesn’t get out too much.

But then, he must have gone out enough to meet Rebecca. And date her. Somehow. That theory is crumbling slowly the more Roger stands like a rock before him.

“Only if you want. You could also take a rain check…” He doesn’t  _ want _ to give him an out, because he  _ wants _ to get to know him. But he has to be a gentleman. And you don’t ask someone out and refuse to give them a chance to say no.

Not that this is even close to that.

 

_ “She said no.” Bucky slumped against the creaky wooden chair they had in the kitchen area. _

_ “No? She said no?” Steve looked up from his sketchbook in surprise. “Really?” _

_ “Yeah, swear to God and my mother.” He heaved a big old sigh, dramatic right through  his fingers and the tips of his toes, as Steve used to tell him. _

_ “That’s crazy. Didn’t think a lady could ever say no to you, how often they say yes and all.” Steve tried to keep the bitterness out of his tone, but it crept in, determined. It wasn’t Bucky’s fault women were never interested in him. In fact, Bucky actively worked to get women to like him. _

_ But some tasks were even beyond Bucky. _

_ “Yeah, well. She said no. So what do you wanna do tonight, huh? Hit the town? Movies? I think we got a bit of change lying around somewhere.” _

_ Bucky knew full well they didn’t, but Steve just shook his head. “Nah. I’m not feeling so hot.” _

_ “What’s up?” His face was immediately full of concern. _

_ “Nothing, really. Just not so hot.” _

_ “Well.” Bucky took one more moment for himself and his pity, then stood up with a flourish. “Well then I’ll just have to show you the best fun this here apartment can offer, huh? I think we got an orange somewhere around here, can eat that for a good time, and uh, we can read one of those myths you like so much, and...” And just like that, all thoughts of his rejection were gone. _

 

“I don’t need a rain check,” Roger says. “I’ll come.” Rebecca has been telling him to try to make friends, has even mentioned this guy Steve by name, says he’s a nice guy and would be good to pull him out of his head for a few hours, somewhere to go and something to do and all that.

So he agrees, and Steve tells him he’ll call Rebecca’s house with the details, and then jogs away, and Roger goes inside and sits down on the cool bathroom floor for a good while, thinking about Steve’s eyes and rocks and Sisyphus, a guy he heard about once, though he can’t remember where.

 

***

Steve is so nervous on the drive to Rebecca’s house that Sam threatens to stop the car and make him get out and walk three separate times. “If you’re like this before hanging out with a couple of dudes I’d hate to see you before a date,” Riley quips, and Steve nudges the back of his seat with his knee.

“I’m not nervous,” he says, but he’s been babbling on since they picked him up, and that’s not like him.

“Just saying, you’re usually serving up long silences so while this is a nice change, it’s also, uh…” Sam starts.

“Annoying,” Riley finishes for him.

A silence falls, one Steve is determined not to fill. It’s just that a lot rides on this night. He wants Roger to be cool to hang out with, yes, but more than that, he wants Roger to prove himself to  _ not _ be Bucky. Preferably via birth certificate or driver’s license or something tangible. Something more tangible than his face and eyes and voice and everything else that belonged to Bucky in another life.

“Okay now it’s awkward,” Sam says, hitting the steering wheel with a palm. “You sure you can handle this, man?” He casts a glance at Steve via the rearview mirror.

“I can handle this. Just haven’t hung out with someone new in awhile,” Steve says, and that’s true. When he first arrived here, there were a lot of new people to meet. Now, not so much. Everyone has made themselves familiar to him by now.

“It’s not that hard, you just have to act like, 150% more normal than you’re acting right now,” Sam tells him.

“Yeah, just be normal, Steve,” Riley tells him, twisting in his seat to look at him with a grin. “If you can do that.”

“I can try my best.” But Steve’s not the most normal guy on a good day.

“I was reading this site on doppelgangers,” Sam tells him as they turn onto Rebecca’s street. “I’d link you if you were a normal human who went on the internet. But maybe you want to find a book on it or something, if he really looks so much like your friend.”

“My dead friend,” Steve corrects him immediately, and maybe that’s what’s got him so worked up, this continued insistence from his mind that Bucky is  _ dead _ . He hasn’t stared that fact in its stone face since it happened, but here he is, practically crawling in bed with it.

“Right,” Sam says, drawing out the word. They pull up in front of Rebecca’s house, and Steve opens his door. “Be normal,” Sam tells him with a warning tone, and Steve nods.

“Always am.”

Riley snorts, and if he says anything, Steve doesn’t hear it, because he closes the door and is starting up the walk.

Roger opens the door just as Steve is reaching for the doorbell, and Steve smiles. “Hey!”

“Hello,” Roger grunts in response, and starts toward the car.

Steve turns and follows him. Bucky would have never worn his hair long like that, right? And that walk - it’s not Bucky’s. Bucky used to move through the streets like he owned them, even though he and Steve knew that they were the dirt under the rich man’s polished boot.

In Brooklyn, though. In Brooklyn, they were at home.

_ This isn’t Brooklyn, _ he tells himself.  _ This is Lake View. _

Roger slides into the back seat and Steve follows him. “Guys, this is Roger, Roger, this is Sam and Riley.” He points.

Sam and Riley are both twisted around in their seats and they smile at him, Riley gives a quick wave. “Hey, it’s nice to meet you. New guy around town, doesn’t happen often.”

“Not since Steve stumbled in,” Sam says, and Steve shrugs while Roger’s piercing gaze turns to him.

He looks like he’s sizing him up, and doesn’t say anything for a moment, but then, “When did you get here, Steve?”

“Little while back. Couple of years,” Steve says, as Sam pulls away from the curb.

“Where are you from?”

“Lot of places,” he says. “But New York, originally. Brooklyn.” Originally.

“Brooklyn,” Roger repeats, and Steve thinks he can detect a bit of an accent - but that’s probably just wishful thinking.

“Where are you from, Roger?” Sam asks, because Riley’s busy...laughing at something.

“Washington, DC,” Roger says.

“Originally?” Riley asks, getting a hold of himself just enough.

“Yes.” Roger nods. 

“Guess you’re no longer outnumbered, Steve,” Sam says. “Couple Americans, couple Canadians. Sounds like a joke.”

“Two Americans and two Canadians walk into a bar…” Riley says.

“And they order drinks and have a damn good time,” Sam replies.

Riley rolls his eyes. “Hilarious.”

Steve and Roger are busy looking at each other, eyeing each other up. Steve doesn’t know why Roger is looking at him like this, but he doesn’t mind it. It feels familiar. And maybe that familiar feeling and the way he sinks into it so easy means that he shouldn’t spend any time with Roger, should keep his distance as much as he possibly can, because this is dangerous. He’ll fall into someplace he can’t climb out of, the rate he’s going.

They make small talk for the rest of the drive, Sam and Riley mostly driving it, Steve too distracted to think straight, Roger too...quiet, mysterious, whatever he is. He seems like he’s been through a lot, to make him how he is. Steve wants to know more. He wants to fix it, even though this isn’t Bucky with some back alley scrapes or a bullet wound, that one time, in his shoulder, that healed up so fast.

Steve pushes thoughts of Bucky out of his mind and focuses. They’re pulling into the gravel parking lot of the Fishery, the only bar around for miles.

“Be forewarned, Roger,” Sam tells him, “this is not a  _ nice _ place, but there’s drinks here and that has to count for something.”

“And their chips aren’t bad,” Riley adds.

Roger nods, and they all climb out of the car and pour into the bar.

It’s dark, not too crowded, with a bunch of guys gathered around the central bar, and most of the booths that wrap around the edges of the room empty. They wave at the bartender and take a seat in one of the booths. Roger and Steve on one side, Sam and Riley on the other.

“Waitress here tonight only speaks Inuktitut and French,” Sam tells Roger.

Roger shrugs. “That’s no problem, I speak French.”

“Really?” Steve raises his eyebrows, impressed.

“Of course.” He shrugs again.

The waitress comes over and hands them menus, greets them in French, and they all order beer.

When she leaves, Steve asks, “Where’d you learn French? School?”

Roger thinks for a moment, as if trying to recall, and then says, “Yes, school. It must have been in school.”

Steve remembers long hours stuttering over foreign French words after school with Bucky. This is different. “Me too,” he says.

“In Brooklyn?” Roger asks.

“Yeah, in Brooklyn.” Steve laughs.

“So what’s Brooklyn like?” Riley asks him, leaning in, then addressing Roger. “Steve never talks about his life.”

“I do. You just never ask.”

“Uh, false.”

“Brooklyn is nice,” Steve says. “It’s, uh… friendly, if you know the right people. Lots of different kinds of people to meet. Lot of Irish, Germans, Jews. Irish grandmothers are the nicest people on this planet, always made me lots of food. Oh, but the Puerto Ricans’ food was better.”

“Diverse place,” Riley says.

“Where in Brooklyn?” Sam asks him.

“Red Hook.”

“Huh.” Sam nods, but it doesn’t mean anything to him.

“I’ve been to Brooklyn,” Roger says. “Long time ago. It was nice though. Like you said.” He seems like he’s trying very hard to remember something.

“You lived in DC your whole life?” Sam asks Roger.

“No. I moved around for awhile,” Roger says, still concentrating.

“Sounds tough,” Sam says.

“Not so bad.” Roger seems to give up trying to remember whatever it was he was concentrating on so badly.

“So what do you do, Roger?” Riley asks.

Roger seems completely caught off-guard by this question. “I… don’t do anything.”

“I mean for your job,” Riley says.

“Nothing. I don’t have a job,” Roger says.

“How do you know Rebecca?” Steve asks him.

“She’s family,” Roger says, seeming more and more agitated with every question.

“Well that’s nice, always good to have family,” Steve says. So they aren’t a couple. “I did a roofing job for Rebecca and Caleb, while back. Nice people. She cooked me a lot of dinners in thanks.”

“Caleb is very interesting, isn’t he?” Roger seems a little bolstered by this.

“Smart kid, real smart,” Steve says.

“He teaches me things I never knew before,” Roger says. “It’s amazing.”

“Me too.” Steve laughs.

“I’m gonna have to meet this kid,” Sam says.

“He’s a spitfire,” Steve says.

“Spitfire,” Roger repeats. “Good word for it.”

They fall into conversation naturally then, talking about Lake View, some of the town figures. They tell Roger about the people to avoid, places to go to get discount food, where to go when the weather gets a little nicer. Roger opens up more and more with every passing moment, relaxing as the conversation picks up. Steve gets the impression he hasn’t done a lot of socializing. Unlike Bucky. Steve used to say Bucky could make conversation with a rock and the rock would want to propose at the end of it.

_ “Oh you’re just sweet on me yourself, aren’t ya, Stevie?” Bucky would tease right back. _

They each have a few beers, though Roger doesn’t seem to get even a little buzzed.

“You hold your liquor pretty well,” he says.

“So do you,” Roger replies, levelling him a look.

“Good point.”

“Heavy drinkers, both of you, huh?” Riley asks with a laugh. He’s had 3 and is a little touchier than usual.

Sam slings an arm around Riley’s shoulders. “Maybe you two should do shots, Riley and I’ll stick to the beer, and we’ll get even like that.”

Steve laughs. “Yeah, let’s try that sometime.” He’s glad that Sam and Riley are willing to let some curiosities slide.

They drop Roger off at Rebecca’s, Steve driving this time, and he tells him to come by the deli or something and they’ll make another plan. Roger actually smiles and tells him he’ll do just that, then heads up the walk.


End file.
